Evolution
by Renart
Summary: Rebuilt Torchwood 3 gets a new doctor that seems to be infatuated with the cold storage for no apparent reason.
1. Day Seven

**Title:** Evolution

**Summary: **Rebuilt Torchwood 3 gets a new doctor that seems to be infatuated with the cold storage for no apparent reason (crossover with Highlander: The Series).

**Warning:** in the end there will be only one

**Pairings:** ALL CANON with Methos thrown in the middle

**Spoilers:** New Who up to "Planet of the Dead" and "Children of Earth" for Torchwood.

**Beta: **Snakling

**A/n:** there are days when everybody lives. This is one of these stories.

**Obviously, I don't have any legal right.**

**Chapter 1****. Day Seven**

A week full of genuine Welsh mud, of unsuccessful attempts at camping and of little green men, that, to tell the truth, weren't all that green, or little, or for that matter that close to humanoid pattern, left Methos seriously doubting his own sanity. And it wasn't the aliens or the fact that Wales apparently had got a Rift in Space and Time. The first was something he'd learned to accept a long time ago and as for the second… truthfully he'd always suspected there was something fishy about Cardiff. No, what he didn't understand was how on Earth he'd joined the merry band calling themselves Torchwood Three. The job was pure madness. And it was dangerous. And he was far far too old for the "Twenty first century is when everything changes..." spiel to work on him. Not after Punic Wars and the invention of the toaster. Still here he was, Dr. Matthew Pierson, eyes wide open and enough fervour to move a small mountain, the newest addition to the collection of the charming Gwen Williams. Obviously he was also too curious for his own well-being and too sentimental as he had fallen for the smile of a woman wearing the face and the name of a dead girl he'd loved in another lifetime.

_Cardiff, 1869, December 24_

_He comes to her every Tuesday and she thinks he is a butcher boy with a lovely smile. He carries a golden ring close to his heart and when spring comes he will ask for her hand and take them away to Naples or maybe Corsica. But now the snow is falling from the sky and Christmas is in the air and he thinks he just might surprise his lovely girl with a modest present and a quick kiss at the back door. His Gwyneth. Singing under his breath he walks along the busy streets and smiles. And then he smells it, the sickily familiar stench of a burned house and crispy human flesh. His heart leaps. He breaks into a run. Then it's all black in his memory. He comes to his senses under the light of a street lamp, cradling her dead charred body and crying like a wild wolf._

But it was past long gone and buried and meant to stay that way, even if he was fool enough to accept a job where it would be clawing at the insides of its metaphorical memory coffin. With an inner sigh of surrender to his own stupidity, Methos bent over the now late representative of the amphibious species that found its end at the hands of angry farmers while stealing sheep, of all things to nick on Earth. At least it was a very native way to die, he mused poking its innards. He vaguely remembered something similar happening to him during the Crusades. He certainly could feel compassion for the poor sod.

And no wonder Gwyneth had searched for a doctor for more than half a year. Young people these days didn't appreciate anymore all the slime and bile and raw flesh. They expected technology to do everything for them. As if! And here it was lying before him: terra incognita – in all its bloody beauty. Ready to be discovered and described. It was fascinating and reminded Methos of his Heidelberg years. His first time as a medic and there was no better time to become one than the fifteenth century. Experiments in the cold vaults, smells that had nothing to do with war, but science and progress.

It was well past midnight when he finally packed the body for storage. Only a funny black boy called Mickey was still in the Hub, everybody else long gone home.

"Need a hand, doc?"

"Nay!" he answered with an easy smile accepting a cup of long gone cold tea. He glanced at the screen with computer code he shouldn't understand. "What's that?"

"A program predicting Rift activity. Five years of refining and it still doesn't work like it should."

He nodded.

"So you've been here… what… five years?"

"Came here only a few months ago myself."

"No regrets so far?"

Mickey wistfully looked at nowhere in particular.

"What regrets? It's Torchwood."

"Right. Look, I'll put our LGM in the freezer. Then we can go out, have a drink or something?"

"Sure. It's a deal."

"Five minutes! I'll be back!"

The corridor leading to the cold storage was noticeably different from the main Hub, where everything still smelled fresh. It was damp and something grew in the corners, he was positive about that. Flickering light wasn't particularly reassuring either, so by the time he was standing at the last door Methos prepared himself for something from trash movies about maniac surgeons, but the morgue was surprisingly normal, if bigger than he anticipated. In the cold bleaching light he gazed at the numerous vaults lining up the walls. No, it wasn't a morgue, but a cemetery for decades now, maybe even more than a century. With light amusement he pushed the cart forward and stepped on the little bit of holy ground. Such a grim place for his colleagues considering Torchwood retirement policy, for him it was now another reminder of who he truly was.

Choosing the nearest chest he quickly put the unlucky alien in the place of its final rest and was ready to leave the damn place till next time, when a familiar din washed over him. Sucking in deep lungfuls of chill air, Methos reached for his gun. No one on the team was immortal. It meant he was alone with an intruder all on his own with one gun. And his Bluetooth was upstairs, so no help. "Holy ground!" he reminded himself rather hysterically and with slightly detached interest wondered what his beautiful boss would think if he blew up her super secret base on his first week. He knew it was a bad idea from the very start to join Torchwood. Shit! He listened carefully, but no sound reached his ears. It was strange. Come to think about it the buzz was strange. It was kind of vibrating and fracturing and breaking into not one, but… two… no three… different sounds, all barely distinguishable… Laughing with relief and embarrassment, Methos leaned against the cold tiles and with shaking hands holstered the gun back. Calming a little bit, he looked with new apprehension at the shelved drawers. He wasn't the first immortal in Torchwood, not by a long shot. The real question was, who were those three? And how come they'd ended up in the basement of Torchwood Three of all places?


	2. Anniversary

**Chapter 2****. Anniversary**

It was September again and one chilly morning Gwen, not without wonder or pride, thought that life still went on. It was a miracle that in her condition she had managed it and not lost either the baby, or the city. But she'd done it. Torchwood still stood protecting Cardiff and Earth. Only that new rebuilt Torchwood wasn't Jack's, even if she would be all too eager to make it his responsibility once again.

Because this Torchwood was hers to guide and grow and mould. Being Director was harder than she feared it would be, with too much responsibility, too much power. And the things that still lay ahead made her feel dizzy, because there was no way she could do everything that needed to be done.

At least the Hub had been rebuilt. And the new team had been formed. Only five people. Four gorgeous brilliant selfless people and her. She didn't dare yet to expand her team more, but she knew eventually she would. Because Torchwood wouldn't afford what had happened a year ago, when it was all but destroyed. They needed more people to guard not just Cardiff, for which surprisingly five people are quite enough, but to protect Earth itself when no one else dared to stand. Mickey sort of shared her dream, as apparently in this parallel world Torchwood did exactly that. And it gave her hope and strength, because when one day Jack came back she would leave him a Torchwood he could be proud of. She reflected that it was nothing new. She'd done it already once after Abaddon, only then no one'd really noticed.

Snapping back to reality she quickly finished her dress and peered into the nursery room, then carefully tip-toed in. She gently kissed her boy, sound asleep in his cradle, and arranged the blanket. Then she stepped back and with a sigh walked out. She wished they could spend more time together, but not with her work. The nanny seemed to be a good woman.

She headed for the kitchen and she was half-way through breakfast when the doorbell rang through the house. Was it Lois? She glanced at the CCTV monitor. No, it was her new medic, Dr Matt Pierson, a complete failure in combat, but he was the doctor from god and certainly not a MI5 spy. She was a little bit surprised, as Torchwood's newest medical genius wasn't the type to pay a visit to the boss at eight o'clock in the morning. She heard Rhys and Matt's muffled voices coming closer. Maybe he came to speak with Rhys? But surely financial statements or whatever could be discussed an hour later when everybody are properly at work?

She greeted their guest warmly nonetheless and offered a cup of coffee. He accepted gladly and she thought he really needed a woman in his life. Or a man. Just someone to be close. He was too lonely, too buried into his work. She smiled at herself and asked for the reason of his early visit.

"I need to talk with you, both of you," he replied. "Off the records."

"What's up?" she asked cautiously.

Matt seemed for one reason or another reluctant to continue. She picked up her own cup of tea and looked pointedly at him.

"Come on … Spill the beans."

"Right. I've picked up strange energy readings…" he started slowly. "I was checking new gizmos. Routine scan. You know how it is. By the way, we got a colony of alien bats on the third level."

"I know. Go on. Readings."

"It got me thinking, because they sort of reminded me of something. You see, my father, Adam Pierson, he used to work for this international organization. They're called the Watchers. Their sole purpose is to watch a certain type of people. So I called an old family friend. Don't worry, no breach of security. I just needed to confirm my suspicions. There is a race, a human race, in vain they call themselves Immortals but the term is less correct than many care to admit. And before you start wondering they have nothing to do with your runaway captain. His indestructible ass is something else entirely."

Rhys was paying more attention to breakfast than the report. She shot him an angry glare and he obediently asked with mild curiosity, "So what about these immortals?"

"We got three stashed in our morgue. And yes, they are not dead."

"Shit!"

Gwen pursed her lips. On the verge of sanity and science. Outside public knowledge and common sense. That was what made her fall in love with Torchwood. And she still loved every minute of it.

"Matt, what else?"

"They are not a threat on the whole. They have been living on this planet for thousands and thousands of years and nothing beyond plain old boring human race behavior has happened so far. Doesn't mean they can't be a problem. Certain individuals, just like any normal humans, are capable of horrible things. Subject number one, last known alias Gregory Hampton, is exactly this. Torchwood frozed him over eighty years ago. All in all we were lucky, because my sources believe him to be responsible for three confirmed cases of mass genocide in the last five hundred years, regular cold-blood kills, rapes. You name it, he's done it all. I would recommend to throw away the key, probably would be better if we kill him."

"How do you kill an immortal?" Gwen reasoned doubtfully.

"I don't know, but my source seem to be confident in the success should the need arise."

"And the other two? Are they off their rocket too?"

"The second one – don't think so. Just an ordinary girl as far as I can tell. Name is Emily Lee. The first reported death took place in 1956 and three years later she was already enjoying a prolonged vacation in our cryogen after an encounter with something described in the report as 'an extremely dangerous poisonous yo-yo. Origin unknown'. No reported crimes, no shady connections. I recommend we let her go."

"But she is this immortal thing?" Rhys clarified, chewing on his toast. "Alien?"

Gwen looked at Matt for an answer.

"They're not aliens," he started to explain patiently. "They've all got similar human DNA with patterns foreseeing the 21st century, but human nonetheless. I dare assume that they are another branch of the human race. Some sort of temporal blast from the future so far away that humanity or at least some part of it will have evolved into them. I can't even imagine how or why but their children are scattered throughout history."

"Sound like invasion to me."

Matt didn't answer, but it was somewhat clear what he thought about that particular idea. Gwen could see his point and a few years back she would have been the one with that particular angry gaze and heart on her sleeve. Now she was in charge. She stared at her plate with her half-eaten breakfast and didn't feel like deciding the fate of the damn species.

"I need more information," she concluded eventually.

"Maybe we can defrost one of them?" Rhys mused calmly. "Ask some questions. Usual things. Tests."

It was reasonable. Before Gwen could pick up the idea Matt's fingers started flying above the keyboard and windows with information she couldn't even begin to understand popped out all over.

"I did a bunch already. It's all profoundly interesting and world shattering if you are specializing on Human Genome or say evolution."

"They could be sleeping agents," Rhys put in thoughtfully, still developing his previous idea.

"Or they could be just lost," Pierson retorted with a confident grin defending his own theory.

Gwen suppressed a smile. No one else had this kind of conversation first thing on Friday mornings.

"Rhys, Matt. We'll discuss it. What about number three?"

Matt smiled slyly and pushed s folder towards her across the table.

"Judge for yourself."

She'd learned how to read as a five-year-old child, but now this simple ability seemed to desert her. What she saw didn't make sense. It wouldn't be an exaggeration to infer that at that moment nothing really made any sense. It was like one of these dreams where you are falling from the sky, breath-takingly horrible and excitingly beautiful at the same time. And Gwen was falling.

She noticed Rhys jumping up from his chair and the clatter of heavy furniture against the floor. She heard his indignant voice asking angrily, "What kind of sick joke is that?"

She listened to the calm and measured reply, "It's true. As far as I can tell it was his first death, which takes up to three days to overcome. By the time his body was ready to revive it couldn't. Not at such a temperature."

It all didn't make any sense whatsoever.

Gwen stared blindly first at her husband, than at her doctor and yet all she could really see was two words moving her to cry and laugh at the same time, two words only. And these two words printed in bold letters on a standard Torchwood case folder were JONES, IANTO.


	3. Wake

_A/N: first two __chapters are reposted 'cause now this story has beta – Snakling. _

**Chapter 3. Wake **

The heating in the room was turned on to maximum and it was starting to get uncomfortable.

Sipping his ice coffee Methos glanced down at the autopsy table and the stiff body laid on it. Of course, no changes were visible so far. It would be another two or three hours of wait till it would properly unfreeze and the fun part would begin. But Gwen Williams dutifully holding a stiffened hand was another matter altogether. She was lustrous. And Doctor Pierson would give a lot for these shining eyes to look at him in this way. But not today. Tasting the mild bitterness of the strong coffee on his tongue, he thought, not without a pitch of cynicism, that he might have a chance in a few years. After all, Rhys was just a mortal and this was Torchwood. Methos's gaze traveled to the display hanging from the opposite wall. He had calibrated a few scanners so they could see the slow build of energy inside Jones. Mostly for Gwen's comfort if nothing else.

If he could he would jump to the opportunity to do a few hundreds of tests on the unfreezing colleague, but something – common sense, probably, or five thousand years worth of experience – told him that it wouldn't be wildly appreciated. A shame, really! The process of revival was one of the most fascinating and, ironically, least researched mechanism he'd ever encountered. And with Torchwood technologies… It was not like he didn't have two bodies in the basement that wouldn't be guarded with the same vigour. Or he could always convince Jones to make his contribution to science later.

He snorted into his cup and got a quick questioning glance from the object of his observation.

"Sorry."

"Don't. Really, I don't mind. I know how foolish it all looks like."

"He will wake up," he observed, taking a step down the stairs.

Gwen nodded and her worried gaze returned to the marble-like face.

"I don't want to be somewhere else when he will. And Ianto wouldn't want it either. He always sat with Jack. The least thing I can do is to give Ianto the same favor. What?"

"He is lucky to have you."

"I suppose."

"No, I mean, I saw CCTV. His sister is still demanding the body. Imagine waking up in the coffin six feet under the green lawn of cemetery. Suffocating pressure, no air and absolutely no way out. I suppose, even the eternity in Torchwood vaults is better than this."

"He would have gone mad there…" Gwen shuddered.

"As I said, lucky."

And this was all he really knew about Jones at that moment. Lucky bastard: to be Torchwood, to have Gwen, to be loved by her gentle heart. Too familiar himself with the devastating feeling of losing someone to unfair death he couldn't bear to look at Gwen Williams and do nothing to ease the pain eating her from inside out. If not for this compassion, he would never do this like this: fast and rushed.

Even now, despite his own actions, Methos wasn't exactly sure what he was trying to accomplish with that selfless stunt. Short-perspective plans were more than clear for him, what really bothered him was the future. He didn't know the boy and to rely only on dry Torchwood reports, a one-side drunken conversation with Rhys and a few phrases heard here and there wasn't his usual style. It was dangerous. It wasn't calculated risk; it was a gamble. But what was done was done, the wager with chance was made. As a last resort he could always bagger off. Which would be a shame. He really liked Torchwood. It was insane, but here in Cardiff he was more alive than in the last decade. Guarding planet Earth in company of four brave, brilliant and just plain mad men and women. Insane, certifiably insane!

He just hoped Jones was as mad as the rest of them.

"Tell me about him," he requested with a gentle nudge in his voice.

"Oh, Ianto is… Is. It feels like Christmas come earlier. Ianto is Ianto. It's hard to explain. God, he was such a big part of my life and I still can't find proper words." She hesitated, stroking a cold pale cheek. "Our own Torchwood-style Jeeves. Does it make sense, Matt?"

"You mean now we got a hope to get rid of all this mess without retconning a cleanup company?"

"That too." Gwen smiled dreamily and Methos decided that it was a good moment for the next move. Rhys had just wandered off to feed the Weevils, and with Lois and Mickey sleeping soundly in their flats after last night's shift and Jones still dead they were pretty much alone. The boy hardly counted yet. Which was just perfect. Because he seriously doubted that Jones's loyalty to his newly discovered species would be stronger than Torchwood protocol. Which didn't leave him a chance to continue being Matt Pierson.

"Let's clear it out a bit. Don't want him to panic and label me as new Frankenstein, do we?"

"I'm more worried about what Ianto will make of himself."

He glanced in passing at a syringe with industrial-strength sedative waiting to be used. He really hoped it would be enough. Then his hand started sorting scattered-around tools, while the more cynical part of him that didn't believe in the purity of human intentions or whatever tried for the last time to appeal to his common sense.

Well, it didn't succeed.

"He will be fine," promised Methos picking up another scalpel and putting it into the box. Then he collected a sonic knife and let it fall out of his hands. He tried to catch it, but succeeded only in slashing his own palms. Of course the deep gash didn't last long and by the time Gwen was by his side it was gone in blue lightning.

"Matt?" She looked at him wildly.

"Ok," he said to the gun aimed at him. "That wasn't my father."

They eyes locked and Methos raised up his hands still covered in blood.

"You are…" she began, but he swiftly interrupted her and finished with gentle smile.

"… Immortal. Yes."

"You lied to me from the very start."

"I just tried to be a normal human, Gwen. And don't tell me I wouldn't be already frozen in our cold storage if you'd known what I am."

He saw the inward struggle on her face. She glanced back at the autopsy table.

"You wouldn't."

"Really?"

"How can I trust you now?"

"I could have kept my mouth shut and you'd never have known. Think about it."

"Then why?"

He nodded at the still body behind them.

"Because it's awful, Gwen Williams. And your boy doesn't deserve to be frozen for centuries, for millennia like mammoth in permafrost after all he has done. He is a bloody hero."

"What do you want from Ianto?"

"Me? Want? From him? Nothing, seriously. Thank you would be good of course. And I still hope to keep my job."

Gwen lowered her weapon.

The truth was that Methos had fruitlessly searched for a student, had wanted to find one for a long long time, since the Caliphate reign in Spain. But it never ended well. Usually either heads rolled, or ways parted. They didn't understand that he didn't seek a successor (Gods forbid) or a lover (commitment aside that was plain creepy) or a mirror (even more creepier) or a friend-protector (funny concept to play with, but really grows old after a few years) or a slave (the whole notion was too out-dated), but it was all he could find. What he needed was a companion disinterested in the Game, but strong enough to survive it. In theory it was easy, practice showed that it was damn impossible.

"I see. So you are his second cousin twice removed or something."

"Or something."

Gwen nodded and put the gun back into the holder.

"And if I don't throw you out I will get two immortals on my team, that could walk away from anything undamaged."

"Practically everything," corrected Methos inwardly cursing Jack Harkness.

"You are…"

"Damn it, Gwen, I'm a doctor, not a... Whatever you think. I'm a little bit older that it states on my driver licence. That's all!"

"How much older?"

Matthew Pierson looked at her with gilt and shyness and uneasiness written all across his face. Methos just smiled inwardly.

"I was found in 1765. Jean de Vernant and his wife adopted me." He allowed bitterness in his voice. It was easy. In a way, it was true. "They were a good people. And it was a good life. Only in 1790 an angry mob hanged us all on lampposts in the good old city of Paris."

"Shit!"

"Well, I count myself lucky. The guillotine was a hit at that time."

"Why? Does it hurt too much?"

Methos cursed Jack Harkness once again in seven dead languages and said aloud, "Beheading is lethal for my kind."

"Anything else? Radiation exposure? Silver bullets? Being blown up to pieces? Liquid nitrogen?"

Methos whistled.

"Hell, your Captain was really busy!"

"Tell me about this!"

A sudden metallic sound announced the return of the third member of their cheerful party.

"Any changes?" asked Rhys from the doorway, carrying a tray with food and drinks.

There was an awkward silence.

"Am I interrupting something?"

"No! No!" exclaimed Gwen shooting an apologetic glance at him. Methos shrugged in that-is-your-decision gesture. "I'll tell you later, sweetheart!" she promised, stealing a cup of coffee from Rhys's hands and returning to her seat by Jones's side. "How are our Weevils?"

And that was that.


End file.
